


tell me something divine

by grimm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fuckbuddies, M/M, Monster of the Week, Near Death Experiences, Palm Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimm/pseuds/grimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole palm-reading ability thing was not something that was ever on Stiles' radar (or the D&D-style stat sheets he'd made up for everyone after the cave adventure of senior year). He can manipulate mountain ash, sure, and the occasional spell if it's simple enough, but any trace of precognitive abilities? Nada. Instead, he gets the occasional glimpse at people's palms and learns way more than he needs to know about strangers - that the waitress at his favorite pizza place has about six months to live, and the mail carrier's ten days from meeting his soul mate - stuff that has absolutely no bearing on Stiles' life and, honestly, is of no use to him whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me something divine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BootsnBlossoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/gifts).
  * Translation into Polski available: [Przepowiedz mi przyszłość](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695511) by [Minamoto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minamoto/pseuds/Minamoto)



> This is for [bootsnblossoms](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/), another tumblr follow milestone fic giveaway winner! She asked for a fic where Stiles has the ability to read palms.
> 
>  
> 
> **Possible triggers: gore/violence (slightly worse than canon-level, I'd say?), near death experience**

When Stiles gets a glimpse at Derek’s hand, it’s totally by accident. He’s kind of sworn off the whole palm reading thing after the whole fiasco with his lit professor and the rigged exams, and even if he _hadn't_ , there's a long list of people whose hands are off-limits to read; chief among those are the pack and his dad, and especially not Derek, for a myriad of reasons.

The whole palm-reading ability thing was not something that was ever on Stiles' radar (or the D&D-style stat sheets he'd made up for everyone after the cave adventure of senior year). He can manipulate mountain ash, sure, and the occasional spell if it's simple enough, but any trace of precognitive abilities? Nada. No reading tea leaves, no gazing into crystal balls, no divining star charts. He would have been happy with some basic mind control, but even that has so far showed no sign of manifesting itself in him. Instead, he gets the occasional glimpse at people's palms and learns way more than he needs to know about strangers - that the waitress at his favorite pizza place has about six months to live, and the mail carrier's ten days from meeting his soul mate - stuff that has absolutely no bearing on Stiles' life and, honestly, is of no use to him whatsoever.

It's not a precise art, either. Most of the time, all Stiles gets are _feelings_ , some more specific than others. Take the waitress, for example - he knows she's going to die, but he has no idea what from; could be a car crash, cancer - who knows? Certainly not him. But then sometimes the feels are crystal clear; the woman his mailman's going to meet is named Jenna and she is almost certainly one of the buxom strippers at _XXX Delite_ over on Congress Ave. He can't dial in on the more foggy feelings; staring at someone's hand for five minutes will reveal exactly as much as a split-second glance. He can't choose what aspect of their lives he sees either; someone could ask him to tell them about their love life but all he might be able to see if that they're going to lose several thousand dollars to gambling problems.

Who knows if he might have even discovered his talent - if anyone ever calls it a gift, Stiles will punch them in the throat; it's an _annoyance_ \- if it hadn't been for a girl he was seeing in college. She fancied herself a psychic and, well, to put it kindly, Stiles has seen enough _real_ talent to know that this girl didn't have a drop. Scott liked to call her Professor Trelawney. They'd been laying in bed one night in a sort of post-coital drunken haze, Stiles' hand spread flat in hers while she giggled and tried to teach him about palm reading. He'd got a tenuous sort of grasp on it - heart line, fate line, whatever - when she'd pressed her hand into his and said, "Now try me."

There's nothing ethereal about the way it happens, no shiver up the spine, no cloud parting in revelation - he just knows, and in this case, like a punch to the gut, he knew she was cheating on him. When he matter-of-factly told her this, all her airy-fairy attitude disappeared with a snap and she'd clambered out of bed, waspishly informing him, "You're _boring,"_ before leaving. Stiles wasn't all that bothered; he was too busy staring down at his hand and wondering what he was going to tell Scott.

That brings him to tonight. He's in bed next to Derek, who's on his side next to Stiles, and when Stiles worms onto his side trying to get comfortable, Derek's hand is _right there,_ fingers slightly curled, palm exposed and open like an invitation.

There are many reasons why Stiles doesn't want to look at the palms of his loved ones. Mostly, he doesn't want to know if any of them are going to be dying any time soon which, considering where they live, is actually highly likely. Scott, who is the only person aware of Stiles' ability, and Stiles long ago agreed that there was no point in trying to use his powers; since there's no way of delving more detail from what he sees, it might do more harm than good. And Derek -

Most of the reason he doesn't want to look at Derek's hand is purely selfish. He and Derek have been doing this thing for a couple months now - Stiles doesn't like how callous the term _fuck buddies_ sounded, but it's pretty accurate. A couple times a week, he ends up at Derek's place and they'll watch a movie or order pizza and then fuck each other senseless. It's nice, it's fun, and Stiles wouldn't say no if they decided they were actually dating, but the one time he brought it up to Derek, Derek's face went all pinched and Stiles dropped it. He doesn't look at Derek's hand, though, because he doesn't want to know how long they're going to last. They'll stay together or they won't - he'll enjoy the ride until it stops.

That night, though, he's too comfortable, fucked stupid, his skin still cooling, ass slick and aching a little. Derek's already asleep and it's so easy to look at him, his face smooth in slumber, and pretend that this is his life, his everyday, and Derek is his to call his own. It's a dumb thing to do, but Stiles indulges anyway, fool that he is. His eyes slip sideways, body loosening as he drifts toward sleep, and his gaze lands directly on Derek's unprotected palm.

It hurts worse than when he'd found out his girlfriend was cheating on him, a deep, cold despair squeezing his heart and lungs until he can't breathe, can't move, can't _think_. It has nothing to do with him or their future, but Derek alone - Stiles feels smothered under it, a sense of doom so ruinous he can feel tears pulling at the corners of his eyes. Derek is going to die. Soon.

"Come on," Stiles mutters frantically, pulling at Derek's hand, uncurling his fingers so he can get an unobstructed view of his palm, but no matter how long he stares at it, he gets nothing more than a bone-deep despair. He has no idea when it's going to happen, or how - but Derek's going to die.

Stiles is starting to panic when Derek stirs, his fingers reflexively curling around Stiles'. "What's wrong?" he mumbles, not opening his eyes.

"Nothing," Stiles says hurriedly because the last thing he's about to do is tell a sleepy werewolf _oh hey, you're about to die_ _._ "I'm - I'm gonna go take a shower."

Derek grunts and appears to go back to sleep, his stern features relaxing once more. Stiles waits a little bit longer before he slips out of bed and jerks his clothes back on, body starting to shake with anxiety as he heads for the door. He makes it outside and to the jeep before he has to stop and press his head against the steering wheel, breathing in pointedly slowly, as if to prove to himself that he’s in control and everything’s okay. Everything’s not okay though, he thinks, glancing up at the dark windows of Derek’s loft. Derek’s going to die.

Stiles drives over to Scott’s, not even thinking about how it’s two o’clock on a Wednesday morning and they both need to be at work in six hours, or how he’s living with Kira now and she’s probably not going to be all too pleased with him either, but this is an emergency. Scott, blessed angel that he is, opens the door before Stiles even gets to it, his face obscured by worry. “What’s going on?” he asks sharply.

“I saw Derek’s hand,” Stiles says, feeling as though his legs are about to collapse under him. His hands are starting to shake again. “Dude - “

“C’mon,” Scott says, reaching out and tugging him inside. “Sit down.”

Stiles hesitates, resisting his pull. “Is Kira - “

“She’s in Japan with her parents, remember?” Scott says kindly. “Sit down before you fall over.”

Stiles lets himself be towed into the living room and collapses gratefully onto the couch, his limbs feeling like rubber. Scott watches him for a moment before disappearing into the kitchen; when he reappears, he’s got a glass of milk in his hand, which he hands to Stiles. As Stiles gulps it down, Scott sits down on the edge of the coffee table and watches him for another long moment before asking, “What’d you see?”

Stiles heaves in a steadying breath and lets it out in a shaky rush. “He’s gonna die, Scott,” he says. His breath hitches. “I don’t know when or how, but it’s going to happen soon and I - I can’t let that happen.” His breath comes faster, his whole body prickling hot and cold in terrifying waves. “I can’t - “

Scott moves, sinking down on the couch next to him. He throws an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and says, “Breathe, dude. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’m not letting any more pack die.”

Stiles tucks his head under Scott’s chin and lets Scott hug him, forcing himself to breathe slowly, inhaling Scott’s familiar scent. He squeezes his eyes shut and says, “Do you think we should tell him?”

Scott’s quiet for a while, thoughtful. “No,” he says eventually. “Not yet, anyway. Let’s see what we can figure out first. If we can stop whatever it is, maybe he never needs to know.”

“Okay,” Stiles says quietly.

Scott gives him one last squeeze and says, “Go take a shower, man. You’re sleeping here tonight.”

Stiles manages to drudge up a smile; he knows he reeks of Derek and Scott’s being nice by not mentioning it. Scott gets him a spare towel and he steps into the shower, where it takes all his willpower to keep from starting to shake again. He looks down at his own hands, fingers spread under the onslaught of hot water. He’s never been able to read his own palms and he’s not sure whether that’s a blessing or a curse. He shakes his head. The whole thing’s a curse; he’d rid himself of this ability in a heartbeat if he could. Stiles towels himself off with a sigh and changes into the sweatpants and t-shirt Scott lends him. He’s going to have to run home in the morning to change into something a little more work appropriate, but Scott’s not going to let him drive when he’s like this - and he’s grateful for that.

Stiles doesn’t even bother going for the couch, just climbs into bed next to Scott. It feels a little like they’re kids again, a weekend sleepover where they’ve spent all night playing video games and eating candy. Stiles has that same sick feeling in his stomach that always came after eating too many Sourpatch Kids; he _wishes_ this feeling was candy overdose induced.

Scott shifts around in the darkness, voice soft when he asks, “Do you think it’s time you tell him how you feel?”

The unhappy feeling at the pit of Stiles’ stomach worsens and he twists, pressing his face into a pillow that smells like Kira’s perfume. “I’ve told you before,” he says, voice muffled. “I tried to tell him and he got all pissy.”

Scott makes an unreadable noise. “You think this way’s better?”

“It’s not worse,” Stiles says moodily. At least he gets some part of Derek this way, instead of nothing at all. That’s got to mean something, right?

-

Scott wakes Stiles up at seven and makes them breakfast, telling Stiles about the weird guy his mom’s started dating while Stiles stares down at his mug of coffee, generally feeling like shit. Scott suddenly stops talking and Stiles looks up at him, realizing Scott asked him a question. 

“Sorry,” he says guiltily. “What?”

Scott frowns at him. “I asked if you wanted to come over to dinner with us so you can check this guy out.”

Stiles stares at him. “What do you think I’m going to be able to do?” Scott raises his hands significantly. Stiles scowls. “I’m not reading any more palms, dude. Do you not understand the shit it’s caused?”

“C’mon, man,” Scott pleads. “There’s something weird about this dude I can’t figure out, and Mom seems to have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, well, to be fair, she thought Peter was completely fine to date too,” Stiles points out.

“Exactly!” Scott exclaims. “And look at what he turned out to be!”

Stiles sighs when he realizes he’s just lost his own argument. “Fine, but you’ve got to help me figure out what to do about Derek.”

Scott nods seriously. “I haven’t forgotten about him, man. Don’t worry. I’ll ask Deaton if he’s heard about anything coming our way.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair with another sigh, pushing his coffee away. “Okay, well, I gotta run home. Call me if Deaton finds anything out?”

Scott nods again. “I will.”

-

Stiles is antsy all day at work, dread boiling at the pit of his stomach. There’s no word from Derek - and there’s no reason for him to contact Stiles; if they were dating, Derek might ask him why he left last night, but as they’re not, Derek has absolutely no reason to ask. The silence doesn’t sit well with Stiles, who worries that Derek could be dead or dying _at that very moment._

He gives in to his fear and texts Derek around noon. _Hey._

It’s two hours before Derek texts him back and Stiles spends the entire time jiggling his feet nervously, too worked up to focus on work. _What?_

Brusque and to the point: classic Derek. Stiles relaxes a little. He’s still alive, then. Then, because he’s opened the conversation anyway, he replies, _Can I come over tonight?_

They don’t usually discuss it; Stiles will just show up at Derek’s apartment and they’ll fuck or they won’t. Sometimes they fall asleep on the couch without doing anything at all, and Stiles enjoys those nights just as much as the ones where they do fuck. He likes waking up tucked up against Derek’s side, legs cramped from being folded up against the end of the couch. Derek never hurries him out of the apartment, either; he’ll usually make them breakfast in the morning, and there’s been several times where Stiles has been late to work because getting handsy at the kitchen counter turns into another round of enthusiastic sex. Derek certainly doesn’t seem like he regrets what they do, or dislikes having Stiles around, so Stiles isn’t sure what his hangup about actually taking the next step into dating is, but he’s afraid that if he presses it Derek will stop the hookups altogether, so he doesn’t press it. It’s not like he’s got any other prospects. 

 _Fine_ , Derek texts back ten minutes later, and Stiles relaxes a little bit more.

-

He spends the next couple nights at Derek’s and Derek doesn’t seem to mind, even if he does look a little exasperated when Stiles shows up for the third night in a row. There’s no news on the supernatural front; Deaton’s got nothing to tell them, and Stiles has been snooping around town in his spare time, scanning all the police reports for anything strange, but nothing’s happening.

(“Maybe it’s not supernatural, then,” Scott says, looking worried. “It could be perfectly ordinary.”

“Like _what?”_ Stiles hisses. “What’s going to kill a werewolf, if not something supernatural?”

Scott looks even more worried. “Plenty of things, dude. We’re not invincible.”

Stiles sighs.)

He keeps sneaking glances at Derek’s palm now, hoping something’s changed, but he just gets that same sense of impending doom. Derek picks up on it, probably because of the way Stiles’ heartbeat picks up every time, and he nudges Stiles on the third night after he’s just handed Stiles a beer and Stiles sneaks another look at Derek’s hand. 

“What’s going on with you?” he asks.

“I don’t - want to talk about it,” Stiles says haltingly, which is not a lie.

Derek frowns at him, but he doesn’t press it, which Stiles had kind of been counting on; for all that he’s matured since they first met, Derek still doesn’t like to talk about emotional stuff. That’s why it surprises him later when they’re falling asleep and Derek says, almost too quiet for Stiles to hear, “If something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

“I’m - I’m fine,” Stiles mutters, remembering too late that Derek will be able to hear the lie. If he does, he doesn’t call Stiles out on it, but curls an arm around his side, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tight, a wave of misery crashing over him as he thinks about losing this, losing Derek. He can’t let it happen.

-

The next morning, Derek gives Stiles an odd look as he yanks his jeans back on. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks.

Stiles is thrown by the concern in Derek’s eyes but he manages a shrug. “I don’t know,” he mutters. It’s not a lie.

-

That night, Stiles goes to Scott’s mom’s house to meet the weirdo she’s dating. Melissa looks confused when she answers the door.

“Stiles,” she says. “Can I help you?”

“Hey,” he says, trying to drudge up some cheerfulness. “I’m here for dinner.”

Melissa’s smile goes a little fixed. “Are you,” she says, not really a question. Stiles can tell Scott never told her he was coming over. At that moment, Scott appears in the hallway behind her, beaming. Melissa turns her fixed smile on her son. “You invited Stiles over?”

“Yeah,” Scott says cheerfully. “I figured since Kira can’t be here, Stiles is basically family, right?”

Melissa lets out a long sigh. “Fine,” she says, and levels Stiles with a look. “Behave yourself, please.”

“When I have ever misbehaved?” Stiles asks angelically. Melissa rolls her eyes, but steps aside so he can come inside.

The guy Melissa’s dating is named Ron and he’s probably the blandest person Stiles has ever met; he’s got a perfectly forgettable face, and when he talks Stiles finds himself zoning out at the sound of Ron’s perfectly monotonous voice. He spends the entire dinner wishing he was at Derek’s, ignoring all the pointed looks Scott keeps throwing his way. They’re halfway through dessert - Melissa’s famous cherry pie - when Stiles finally remembers what he’s there to do - after Scott’s kicked him several times in the shin - and manages to catch a glimpse at Ron’s palm as he reaches for another slice of pie. 

Stiles freezes, his head slightly tilted to the left. Scott kicks him again as Melissa says, “Stiles? Everything all right?”

Stiles shakes his head a little. “F-fine,” he manages to say. “Thought I bit a pit.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Melissa says, her brow furrowing. “Must have missed one.”

Stiles pretends to spit into his napkin as, across the table, Scott gives him a worried look. Ron starts eating his third slice of pie, seemingly unaware of any conversation going on around him.

-

 _“Well?”_ Scott hisses as they head out the door after dinner, Melissa shooing them out so she and Ron can watch _Dancing with the Stars_ or something. “What’d you see?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, dragging his keys out of his pockets.

Scott makes a frustrated noise. “Come on, dude - I saw your face! What did you see?”

 _“Nothing,_ Scott,” Stiles repeats. “Dude has completely smooth hands - no lines or anything!”

Scott stops walking, surprise on his face. “Is that possible?”

“Don’t ask me,” Stiles shrugs. “I know there are people who don’t have fingerprints, but I don’t know about the lines.”

Scott swears. “So you couldn’t read him at all?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not a thing.”

Scott swears again. “What are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” Stiles is getting antsy again. “What do you think we should do about Derek?”

Scott rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe we should tell him.”

“Tell him what, exactly?” Stiles demands. “That I’ve got this feeling he’s about to die but that’s literally all we know? Who would want that cloud hanging over their head? I’m not exactly enjoying it, and I’m not even the one who’s in danger!”

Scott looks frustrated. “You don’t even know when it’s going to happen! It could be years from now! What are you going to do - hang out at his loft every night until it does?”

“Maybe!” Stiles yells. “I don’t know! I didn’t ask for this!”

Scott shuts his mouth, his dark eyes going soft and sympathetic. “I know,” he says gently.

Stiles slumps against the side of the jeep, his eyes burning. Defeated. “I can’t lose him,” he mutters.

“You won’t,” Scott promises. “We’ll follow him twenty-four hours a day if we have to.”

“He’s gonna be pissed.”

“Maybe,” Scott agrees, his mouth twisting, “but at least he’ll be alive.”

-

Stiles goes home to his own apartment that night, even though it goes against the grain of everything he and Scott just discussed. He doesn’t sleep well, and he’s antsy the whole next day at work. He makes Scott text Derek to make sure he’s alive, and so Stiles won’t seem too clingy and Scott texts him back saying _d alive, pissed i woke him up. you up for a stakeout tonight?_

 _At Derek’s???_ Stiles texts back, confused. They could just hang out at the loft; Stiles is pretty sure Derek would be fine with that.  

 _no, we have to follow ron!!_ Scott texts back, and Stiles rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure that, hand-weirdness aside, Ron’s just a boring man with a boring life and, hopefully, Melissa will bore of him pretty quickly.

_Fine, whatever. You’re buying the snacks._

-

“Ron’s boring, dude,” Stiles sighs. It’s almost midnight and they’re sitting in the jeep half a block from Ron’s blasé apartment building, eating Reeses Pieces out of a five pound bag. So far, they’ve followed Ron in his nondescript Honda Civic to the grocery store and back, then watched the glow of his television for a couple hours until it shut off and he went to bed. “You might as well face the music; you’re going to end up with a very boring stepfather.”

Scott scowls at him. “Mom’s not going to marry him.”

“You never know,” Stiles teases. “God, imagine Thanksgiving dinner with him. You’ll fall asleep at the table before you’ve even eaten any turkey.” He cackles, even when Scott punches him in the thigh. “Can we go home now?”

Scott concedes that the night looks like a lost cause, though he makes them sit there for another fifteen minutes - “Just to be sure.” -  before he allows Stiles to start the car.

It’s late, so as much as he wants to go over to Derek’s, Stiles heads home instead. He’s already wistfully dreaming about having a beer and going to bed when he climbs the stairs to his hallway and finds Derek there, leaning against the wall outside his door.

“Hey,” Stiles says, slightly startled to see him. “What are you doing here?”

Derek’s eyebrows do something complicated before he replies, “You’ve been acting weird.”

“And?” Stiles asks, rankled.

Derek blinks, a little startled, before his eyebrows draw together. “I - wanted to see you,” he says haltingly.

“Oh,” Stiles says dumbly. “Um. You want to come in?”

Derek nods and follows him inside. Stiles is a little thrown; Derek hardly ever comes to his place. He thinks that’s what makes some of their casual relationship easy for him; if Derek isn’t constantly in his space, it’s harder to imagine him there permanently. For the first time, he feels guilty thinking about how he’s always at Derek’s place. It must be even worse for him because he’s a werewolf and can smell everything they do there, right? Unless he doesn’t care at all. Stiles bites down on his lip, his stomach twisting unhappily.  

“Stiles,” Derek says behind him. “I can leave.”

Stiles breathes in sharply. “No,” he says, shaking his head as he turns to face Derek. “I - I’m just tired, sorry. You don’t - I’m not sure I’m going to be all that fun.”

“That’s okay,” Derek tells him quietly. “Tell me what you want.”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, lips parting in surprise. “Stay?” he asks nervously, so soft it’s almost a whisper. Derek nods easily and steps forward, curling his hand around Stiles’ wrist and pulling him toward the bedroom. Stiles watches him out of the corner of his eye as they both strip, a little confused by what’s happening. Why’s Derek being so nice? Is he picking up on how upset Stiles is? It’s not really his M.O.

Part of him worries that this is some kind of trick, or maybe Derek’s drugged or something and it’s making him all soft and nice. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but another part of him wonders if Derek’s changed his mind - maybe, finally, he _does_ want something more than casual sex. Stiles bites down on his tongue as he climbs into bed, biting back his curiosity. He’s not going to spoil this, whatever this is. If Derek’s back to his usual grumpy self tomorrow then that’s fine.

Derek crawls in after him, curving himself around Stiles like it’s where he’s meant to be. Stiles can’t help but twist for a minute, picking himself up on one elbow so he can look at Derek’s face, soft in the gloom of his bedroom. Derek watches him in return, his eyes heavy-lidded, body relaxed.

“You’re an enigma,” Stiles informs him.

Derek snorts quietly. “You’re one to talk.”

Stiles smiles faintly and leans forward, pressing in for a slow kiss. Derek makes a quiet noise, lifting a hand to grip the back of Stiles’ neck, but he doesn’t press down, letting Stiles control the pace. He doesn’t drop his hand when Stiles pulls back but keeps it there, warm and solid. Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, body settling under his touch. He focuses on it, putting all threats of doom and death out of his head.

“You want to talk to me?” Derek asks.

“No,” Stiles says, not opening his eyes. “Not - not right now.”

“Okay,” Derek says softly, and Stiles hears him shift forward, lips brushing the underside of Stiles’ jaw before wandering down his throat, his teeth occasionally grazing Stiles’ skin. Stiles sighs quietly, heat beginning to lick at his bones. He shifts suddenly, pushing Derek onto his back so he can roll on top of him, straddling his hips. Derek grins slowly. “Thought you were tired.”

“I’m getting my second wind,” Stiles grins.

Things are just starting to get really good; they’re both hard, grinding against each other while they lazily make out, Derek’s hands kneading at Stiles’ ass, when Stiles’ phone starts to ring. He raises his head with a groan, squinting over at the screen. “Scott,” he sighs.

“Answer it,” Derek says, his hands sliding up to Stiles’ hips. Stiles sighs again, but Derek’s right; they pick up for pack, no matter what they’re doing, no matter what time of day it is. Ninety percent of the time it’s something trivial, but that other ten percent is when it might come down to saving a life. Stiles grabs his phone and swipes open the lock.

“Dude,” Scott says breathlessly. “Ron just killed a kid.”

 _“What?”_ Stiles exclaims. “How did you - ”

“I went back to his house, okay?” Scott groans. “I followed him. Dude, are you with Derek? I called him like ten times!”

Derek flinches guiltily. “I think my phone's on silent,” he mutters.

“I need you guys,” Scott says frantically. “I don’t know what he is, but he’s strong - ”

“We’re on our way, Scotty,” Stiles says soothingly, scrambling off Derek. “Just tell us where you are and back off until we get there.”

Two minutes later, Stiles and Derek are clothed and skidding out the door. They don’t talk; this is an unfortunate occurrence they’ve experienced many many times before, enough that they’ve got their roles down to a tee; they head for the jeep because Stiles is always the driver, so whatever werewolf’s in the car with him can be on the alert. Derek’s got his head out the window as they race through the streets, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Who is Ron?” Derek asks after a few minutes of silence.

“He’s dating Melissa,” Stiles replies, flying through a stop sign and wincing reflexively, his father’s voice lecturing him in his head. “Scott thought something was up with him. We were staking out his house tonight. Scott went back after I left.”

“What is he?”

Stiles shrugs, gritting his teeth as they take a corner too fast. “Dunno. Scott couldn’t figure it out.” They reach the development Scott directed them to; Stiles has to slam on the brakes because Scott’s motorcycle is lying on its side in the middle of the street, though Scott himself is nowhere in sight. “Scott?” Stiles asks Derek sharply. 

Derek twists his head around, nostrils flaring, eyes glowing gold. “I can’t - there’s something else. Blood, and - “ He exhales through his nose harshly. “Someone strange.”

“That’s gotta be Ron,” Stiles says, reaching over the seat to grab his baseball bat off the floor. They both pick up their heads when a howl rises up over the trees beyond the houses.

“You should - ” Derek begins, then cuts himself off with a shake of his head; the rest of the pack has long since learned there’s no point in telling Stiles to stay behind. “Be careful,” Derek amends lamely, though Stiles knows he’s being sincere.

“You too,” Stiles tells him, and as Derek goes trotting off in between the nearest house, the pit of Stiles’ stomach falls away as he remembers the threat hovering over Derek’s shoulders. “Derek!” he says frantically, but Derek’s already disappearing into the trees, his pale form swallowed up by darkness. Stiles swallows. He doesn’t dare shout now; who knows where Ron is, and _what_ he is. Scott said he killed a kid, _jesus_.

He’s lost sight of Derek, but he’s able to keep track of both of the werewolves; they keep sending up short howls, communicating with each other. Scott’s getting closer, and Derek’s somewhere just ahead of Stiles when something else entirely comes through the trees at Stiles. It’s bland Ron, but he’s built wrong, his limbs too long, eyes empty and sunken. There’s something in one of his elongated hands and Stiles’ stomach churns when he realizes it’s a limb, too small to belong to an adult. There’s blood on Ron’s chin as he stops just a couple yards from Stiles, empty eyes turning to stare at him.

Stiles goes to raise his bat but finds himself frozen, a black, endless terror rolling into his mind like a storm, snapping his heart into overtime. It’s the sort of fear Stiles hasn’t felt in a long, long time, not since he was a little kid and he was scared of the monsters under his bed. It drains him, utterly exhausting; he can’t even move a finger as Ron takes a step toward him, his mouth dropping open too far, black teeth glittering in his maw.

Derek’s suddenly there in front of Stiles, hitting Ron with a punch that had his head snapping to the side. Ron staggers back, eyes going luminous silver in the darkness of the woods. He draws in a breath and lets out an inhuman roar that has Stiles shaking. Derek roars back - and it’s weird how comforting it is coming from him. It breaks whatever hold Ron had over him but now there’s nothing he can do but watch them struggle with each other. He doesn’t know where Scott is - he’s stopped howling. Stiles tries to call him, heart banging in his chest as he watches Derek and Ron fight, but it just rings and rings and then goes to voicemail.

Ron has to drop the child’s arm he’s holding to grapple with Derek, his long talon-like fingernails gouging into Derek’s arms. Derek snarls furiously and attempts to shift his weight but Ron catches him in a moment of imbalance, throwing him through the woods. Derek hits a tree with a smack and falls to the ground hard. Stiles swears as Ron lunges through the trees after him; they reach Derek at the same time and while Stiles is fast to swing his bat, Ron’s faster, his jaw unhinging as he sinks his teeth into Derek’s throat.

Derek screams, his body jackknifing. Stiles screams too; he swings the bat as hard as he can, connecting with the side of Ron’s head with a sharp crack. Ron jerks his head up to hiss at him, wet blood smeared all over his distended chin, and Stiles hits him again, right in his gaping mouth. It’s like hitting a brick wall; Stiles feels something in his wrist strain at the stopping force. As Ron gets to his feet, looming over him, Stiles realizes he’s in trouble - Derek’s on the ground and all Stiles has is this bat -

“Scott!” Stiles bellows. _“Scott!”_

He ducks a swing of Ron’s hand and almost sobs in relief when Scott comes flying out of the trees, leaping onto Ron’s back. Ron twists away from Stiles with an angry howl, trying to grab at Scott. Stiles drops his bat and dives over to Derek, who’s still laying on the ground. He swears; there’s blood pumping from his neck in thick streams, skin and muscle torn open. Derek’s eyes have gone glassy and when Stiles drops down next to him, his brow furrows like he doesn’t know who Stiles is.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses, pressing his hands over the wound in Derek’s throat. Blood wells up between his fingers, warm and thick and far too much of it. Derek hisses, blood bubbling up between his lips. “Fuck, shit - just - just hold on, Derek, _please.”_ There’s this terrifying feeling creeping into his mind - _this_ is the moment he’d seen on Derek’s palm. It’s here, and he wasn’t able to stop it. He can’t lose Derek, he _can’t_ ; if Derek dies, something inside him he’s been too scared to face will go with him, and Stiles doesn’t think he can handle that emptiness. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to Derek, voice cracking, his eyes burning. “I got it wrong - I fucked it up. I’m _sorry.”_

Derek’s lips part like he wants to say something; nothing comes out but blood. He curls a hand around one of Stiles’ wrists instead but his grip is weak. Stiles looks up desperately; Scott’s still clinging to Ron’s back, fighting wildly. _“Scott,”_ Stiles says pleadingly. Scott glances in their direction and his mouth drops open before his face goes determined and he gets a hold of Ron’s head, jerking it to the side with a sickening snap. Ron goes limp, his body crumpling to the ground, dissolving into a cloud of black smoke, and then Scott’s scrambling to Stiles’ side, yanking off his shirt so he can press it over Stiles’ hands.

“Scott, I messed up,” Stiles says, blinking hard as tears spill over his cheeks. “What - ”

“This isn’t your fault,” Scott replies fiercely. “Come on, let’s get him up and to the hospital.”

“Do you think - “

“He’s going to be fine,” Scott says firmly, getting an arm under Derek’s armpit and levering him to his feet. Stiles wants to hope - he wants nothing more - but Derek can barely walk, and by the time they get back to the jeep, they have to drag him. Stiles isn’t sure he’s conscious, isn’t sure he’s _breathing_ as they bundle him into the back of the jeep and Scott climbs in with him so he can keep pressure on Derek’s throat, pulling pain from him so his body can focus on healing.

Stiles’ hands are shaking and covered in blood as he attempts to start the jeep, dropping his keys twice before he manages to get them in the ignition. He does a highly illegal u-turn, and then proceeds to break every traffic law as he flies toward the hospital.

“What - what _was_ Ron?” he gasps as houses flash past, trying to take his mind off Derek dying in the backseat.

“I don’t know,” Scott replies grimly. “Some kind of boogeyman. I think he fed on fear - and kids.”

“Shit,” Stiles swears, swerving around a too-slow car. “You saw him?”

“I was too late,” Scott says haltingly. “I got to the house right as he came out - we’re gonna have to call your dad. That poor fucking family.”

“Shit,” Stiles swears again. He can see the hospital in the distance, lights bright at the top of the hill. “Derek?”

“He’s - okay,” Scott says, but that pause tells Stiles everything Scott doesn’t. He presses the gas to the floor, screaming into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t know what they’ll be able to do for Derek but he prays they can do _something_. His breath goes juddering out of him when he hurries around the back of the jeep to help Scott out; Derek’s gone white, his eyes closed. “Scott - ”

“I got him,” Scott says quickly. “You run - tell my mom - ”

Stiles doesn’t need to hear any more; he spins on his heel and sprints toward the emergency room entrance. It’s empty at this time of night and Melissa’s standing behind the desk, bent over a pile of paperwork. She looks up as Stiles comes skidding inside, eyes going wide at the sight of him.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, collapsing against the desk. “Throat - torn out - ”

Melissa turns her head as Scott comes through the doors, cradling Derek’s heavy bulk, and her eyes go even wider. She reaches for a phone, paging a trauma team, and Stiles slumps against the desk, watching Derek get carried away by a team of doctors and nurses. Melissa pauses by them, her eyes sharp. “What do you want me to tell them happened?”

Stiles shrugs, his mind blank. “Dog attack,” Scott supplies, and Melissa nods, hurrying after the other medical staff. Scott turns to look at Stiles, his expression bone-weary, his face flecked with blood. “Stiles,” he says gently.

Stiles shakes his head, staring down at his blood-stained hands. There’s this horrifying emptiness spreading in his mind, cold and everlasting. “I fucked up,” he says to his hands, watching them shake. His throat aches. “I couldn’t stop it. I was too late - ”

“Stop,” Scott says, stepping forward to wrap his arms around Stiles. Stiles clutches at the back of his shirt, his heart pounding in his ears. “He’s going to be fine _because_ of you,” Scott tells him quietly. “I called him first - I wasn’t going to ask you to come, but you were with him, and if you hadn’t been, he would be dead now. Ron - whatever he was - was _strong_.”

Stiles exhales shakily and Scott draws back, guiding him over to a row of chairs against the wall. They sit there in silence for a while, watching nurses and doctors walk past. Stiles looks down at his hands again, picks at the blood that’s gotten under his fingernails.

“We were at my place,” he says abruptly. Scott looks at him curiously and Stiles says, “When I got back from dropping you off, he was waiting for me. He said he wanted to see me.”

“Isn’t that what usually happens?” Scott asks.

Stiles shrugs, his mouth twisting. “I don’t know. It just felt different - he looked like he cared.”

Scott snorts softly. “Dude,” he says. “That’s how he _always_ looks at you.”

Stiles casts him an uncertain look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, man.” Scott sounds half fond, half exasperated. “Look, when he wakes up, do me a favor, okay?”

Stiles draws in a nervous breath. “What?”

“Tell him how you feel.”

“I tried - ” Stiles begins, his stomach twisting, but Scott shakes his head.

“I don’t know what you told him the first time, but try again,” he says firmly. “Okay?”

Stiles exhales. “Okay.”

Scott gives him a one-armed hug as Stiles stares down at his hands again. Is Scott right? He knows Derek cares for him on some level - as a pack member and as a friend - but the _lack_ of care on a more intimate level is what’s keeping them simple fuck buddies…right? Except - except point of fuck buddies is to fuck, right? Yet there have been plenty of nights where they’ve just hung out, and it’s not like Stiles falls asleep on the couch; there’ll be this conscious moment where they decide to go to bed, together, and all they do is sleep. Tonight isn’t the first time it’s ever happened.

He knows that Derek doesn’t mind spending time with him - if he did mind, there’d be no lingering breakfasts, no hanging out for hours before they even get around to hooking up. Stiles exhales quietly. Somehow, he’s pretty sure, in the past couple of months, they’ve left the fuckbuddies label in the dust and now they’re something else entirely. He hopes.

Melissa reappears after a while, looking tired. She smiles when she sees them though, Stiles and Scott both straightening as she walks down the hall. “He’s stabilized,” she says before either of them can ask, and Stiles slumps in his seat in relief, feeling as though he could cry. Melissa looks around carefully before adding, “He lost a lot of blood. They had to give him several pints before it looked as though his healing began to kick in.”

“Can we see him?” Stiles asks hoarsely.

Melissa looks around again before nodding, gesturing at them to follow her. She leads them into the elevator and up a couple floors before they’re guided down a quiet hallway. She stops outside one door, pauses before she says, “Is one of you going to tell me what happened?”

Scott and Stiles glance at each other. “You go,” Scott says. “Mom - ”

Stiles slips into the room as Scott begins to explain the night’s events - he’s not jealous of Scott in the slightest; how easy is it going to be to explain that her now-deceased boyfriend was a kid killer?

The hospital room is dark and silent, only a soft light above the bed on, bathing Derek in a quiet yellow light. He’s on his back, dressed in a hospital gown with his throat all covered in bandages, and it’s such a relief to see him there, alive, his chest slowly rising and falling, that Stiles’ eyes start to burn again. He pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits slowly, breathing in deeply before reaching out and putting a hand on Derek’s arm. His skin’s warm under Stiles’ hand, _alive_. Stiles exhales roughly, body shaking with relief.

Scott comes in a few minutes later, looking solemn. He stands next to Stiles and reaches out a curious hand, pressing his fingers to Derek’s wrists. A couple of black lines snake their way up his arm, but he pulls away after a minute, looking relieved. “Doesn’t feel that bad,” he tells Stiles.

“How’d your mom take the news?” Stiles asks.

Scott winces. “Not well. She made me call your dad. He’s taking some deputies out to the woods right now.”

Stiles sighs. Scott squeezes his shoulder. “You gonna stay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says quietly.

“Okay,” Scott says. “I’m going to go check in with your dad. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Stiles nods and Scott squeezes his shoulder once more before slipping out of the room.

-

Stiles stays in the hospital for the two days it takes Derek to wake. He sleeps curled in the uncomfortable chair, or slouched against the edge of the bed. Melissa brings him food and his dad shows up late that first morning, looking exhausted but bearing a change of clothes for him. It’s a mess, he says, since Ron’s body dissolved into smoke and there’s not much left of the little boy he ate. “Another unsolved murder,” Stiles’ dad says gloomily, ruffling Stiles’ hair before leaves.

Lydia shows up and sits with Stiles for a while. She tells him that she and Malia did some research and apparently Ron was a boogeyman. “They move in a loop,” she says, drawing a circle in the air with her finger. “If we could dig up his former addresses, we’d be able to see he’s lived in a rough circle. Who knows how many times he’s been through Beacon Hills?”

“Look up all the unsolved children’s disappearances,” Stiles suggests morosely. Lydia also tells him to stop being a pussy and tell Derek how he feels.

Scott pops in every six hours or so. He touches Derek’s hand every time, draws a little pain from him. Stiles is worried that it’s taking so long for him to wake, but Scott’s not. “It’s the body’s way of focusing on the healing process,” he says. “Remember when Liam got into that car crash? He was in a coma for a week.”

On Scott’s last visit of the night, he leans against the door before he leaves, looking pensive. “Have you looked at his hand?” he asks seriously. 

Stiles shakes his head. He’s thought about it, but he’s scared to look because what if the other night wasn’t the right time, and that shadow of death’s still there? What Derek _was_ supposed to die, and Stiles helped him cheat death somehow, but now something worse is going to come after him? What if his hand’s blank like boogeyman Ron’s - no future at all, just stuck in some weird limbo state of nonexistence?

Scott gives him a sympathetic look and says, “All right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stiles falls asleep that night with his arms folded on the edge of the bed, forehead pressed to Derek’s thigh. He wakes to the feeling of a hand brushing through his hair and when he lifts his head, eyes bleary with confusion and sleep, he finds Derek awake, gazing at him with eyes heavy with weariness.

“Derek!” he breathes, jolting upright. Derek’s hand falls from his hair to the back of his neck and stays there, heavy and comforting. 

“How long?” Derek asks quietly.

“Two days,” Stiles tells him, leaning forward. “Are you - how are you feeling? Do you - ”

“Shut up,” Derek says tiredly, no bite to his words. He lifts his hand, cups Stiles’ cheek, watches him for a long moment before he says, “I love you.”

“I - ” Stiles gapes at him, heat rising to his cheeks. He flounders and lands on “You asshole!” He punches Derek half-heartedly in the thigh. “I’ve been waiting for two days for you to wake up so I could say that!”

Derek snorts quietly, brushing his thumb against Stiles’ cheekbone. “Idiot.”

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Stiles asks, flushing darker.

“Why didn’t you?” Derek retorts.

“I tried!” Stiles protests. “A couple months ago! You - ”

 _“That_ was your attempt?” Derek says incredulously. “I thought you were trying to break up with me!”

“Why the hell would you think that?” Stiles exclaims.

“Because you said, ‘I don’t want to do this anymore,’ and then you said, ‘Nevermind,’” Derek snaps.

Stiles shuts his mouth. “Okay,” he admits after a moment. “I could have worded that better. I just meant - I didn’t want to do the casual thing anymore.”

“I think we passed that a while back,” Derek says.

Stiles grins ruefully. “I think you’re right.”

Derek watches him for a moment. He drops his hand from Stiles’ cheek, letting it fall to rest on Stiles’ hand. A knot in Stiles’ chest loosens when he threads their fingers together and Derek doesn’t pull away. “You want to tell me why you were acting so weird last week?” Derek asks, tone gentling.

Stiles takes a deep breath. Derek deserves to know, he figures, so he tells him everything, starting with his girlfriend in college and everything up through present day. Derek listens quietly, blinking slowly as Stiles speaks. He looks as though he’s getting tired, but his fingers still grip Stiles’ tightly, and when Stiles is finished he says, “Well?”

Stiles blinks. “Well what?”

Derek nods toward their hands. “Is it over? Am I going to die?”

Stiles swallows. “You want me to look?”

Derek levels him with a long look. “You think you’ll be able to avoid it forever?”

“Hey, I managed for quite a while,” Stiles argues.

Derek squeezes his hand. “Just do it,” he says. “Pull the band-aid off.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “You’re sure?” Derek nods and he shuts his eyes for a moment, steeling himself before he flips Derek’s hand. He bites his lip and looks down, taking a long look at Derek’s palm. Slowly but surely, relief creeps into his body and a smile begins to pull at his lips.

“Why are you smiling?” Derek asks, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Stiles looks up at him, grinning. “Your future’s looking up.”

Derek’s fingers curl around his once more. “Are you in it?”

“Maaaybe,” Stiles says, grinning wider.

“Idiot,” Derek says fondly. “I don’t have to be psychic to know that."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://coyotequeens.tumblr.com)! I'm on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/Grimm_times)!


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